


The Last Assassin

by ch1ps0h0y



Category: Assassin's Creed, Psycho-Pass
Genre: Friendship, Gen, M/M, Mentors, Students
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-26
Updated: 2013-03-26
Packaged: 2017-12-06 13:53:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/736422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ch1ps0h0y/pseuds/ch1ps0h0y
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In this alternate universe, just as in the canon, Japan has phased out paranoia and fear by establishing a radical system (Sibyl) which conducts psychoanalyses of a person's mental state and determines if they are a latent criminal. Because of this, the Assassin Brotherhood in Japan is quickly isolated and weeded out - until there is only one man remaining.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Last Assassin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pyrrhics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pyrrhics/gifts).



It's a long fall from the precipice of Heaven to the plane of earth.

Gracefully bowing over the edge, arms flung out to the sides and eyes streaming tears as the ground rushes, colour rushes, and the shuddering jar of impact ends in a crunch of bones.

The descended angel retracts its blade, a smile painted in crimson across the white of its garments. He steps over the corpse and wipes death from his fingers, witnesses parting before him like Moses wading through the Red Sea. Only he isn't Moses, and there are no lost sheep flocking to him for guidance and safety. No-one would flock to a wolf with the blood of its kill still on its jaws.

He loses himself in the crowd before the panic begins.

 

"Area stress level for the Shinagawa Ward has risen to 102.7. Nearby units, please investigate."

There is broken glass from a shattered window scattered around the cybernetic corpse of a robust-looking, middle-aged man. Forensic bots conduct their preliminary scans as the members of Division One survey the scene.

"Did he die upon impact, do you think?"

"Nah, look at the way he's broken: both his chest plate and brain case have been crushed. Something landed on him."

There's a groan of disgust from an onlooker as someone - Masaoka, probably - pokes a finger at the remains of the man's only human feature.

"Records identify him as Senguji Toyohisa. The foremost advocate of cyborg technology. To think he's been murdered right outside his own company's building--"

"Assassinated."

Masaoka withdraws his finger. "Assassinated?" he asks the speaker.

They nod, head turning restlessly like a bloodhound trying to catch a scent. "You can't slit a cyborg's throat."

 

He and this angel of death have danced these steps many times in the past. The rhythms are so familiar and the intricacies so ingrained into the fibre of their bodies that they almost can't comprehend any other. The city backstreets are their floor and the raindrops tiny mirrors briefly reflecting their chase. Ripples through water. Ripples through a complacent society disturbed by fear; fear then translated into muddy hues like an avalanchal tide. He follows the white wraith past cheap LCD signs, almost loses them in the shower of sparks from a dying generator, and then catches sight of them agilely scaling a rusted fire escape.

His weight makes the corroded metal groan where it only creaked for the other. Higher he climbs, eyes on the shifting pale shape ahead, silhouetted so well against the starless sky. A large piece breaks off in his hands and he swings in empty space for a startled second, with his gaze not on his quarry but on the next stable handhold. When he looks up again, the pale shape is gone.

But then he pulls himself up and over the edge of the roof, and there they are: sitting on the curved shell of a disused ventilation shaft. It's a relic of the old metropolis, and an appropriate, inglorious throne for the white figure as it peruses a small hardcover book while waiting for him. Beneath the shadow of their hood he glimpses a pleased smile, before the novel is shut and secreted in a hidden pocket beneath their clothing.

One last lesson, they whisper. The most important one which tests his faith.

Kougami follows the hooded angel to the opposite edge, the one which overlooks traffic. It's too far up to make out anything other than the long, vague shapes of conical headlights and winking red eyes forming the neat, straight lanes of a dull, blue-grey snake that twists through the city. Beside him, the figure leans dangerously out and gestures expansively towards the ground, highlighting a swathe of pedestrians immediately below them.

Leap from here, they say, and land safely.

How, he asks. They smile.

Watch.

The angel steps out into open air...and falls.

 

It's really quite surprising to Kougami that nothing had been noticed earlier. One would think that someone, somewhere, would have picked up on the signs of his beginning to reject the Sibyl System for the tenets of his new brotherhood. A flippant comment, a flash of discontent - but no, neither Gino nor the myriad of scanners monitoring the outside and inside of the building triggers an alert that he should undergo therapy. Far from minding, he thinks it curious and amusing. Which makes it something of a disappointment when he's finally caught.

The demotion comes suddenly but is not unexpected. A Dominator accidentally pointed his way, revealing what he managed to keep secret for several months, earns him a private appointment with the head of the MWPSB, and a shiny new bracelet that's more effective than a row of black iron bars and three cell walls.

Kougami heads to the balcony to take a smoke, and his partner - former partner - follows him out brimming with anger and heated words. He listens to the tirade idly, blowing out smoke over a city trundling its way through another day, another rotation. Gino's words have always served as a pleasant buzz of banality amidst the busier cluster of his own thoughts. Which is not to say that Gino is boring so much as the man can't seem to accept the decision of a perfectly sound-minded adult, crime coefficient of over 200 or not, to pursue justice whatever the personal cost.

Gino leaves him alone eventually, to down a strong drink. His new partner will be transferring tomorrow morning. Kougami stubs out his cigarette in an empty ashtray, folds his arms over his chest and watches the sun silhouette the horizon. For a long while, until the ruddy red darkens to blue, it feels as if the blood of his first kill still stains his hands.

 

"His name is Makishima Shougo."

A picture flashes on to screens in the theatre: a youthful man with white hair and yellow eyes, but otherwise unremarkable features.

"All units are henceforth placed on high alert. Any sighting of this man is to be reported immediately. He is a highly-trained assassin and therefore must not be engaged under _any circumstances_. Understood?"

The newly-assigned Inspector, Tsunemori Akane, follows glances from the lidded stare of their chief to the blank, impassiveness of her colleague's. There is silence in the theatre, thick and heavy, saying more than words could. After a moment to make sure the message sinks in, their chief claps her hands sharply together.

"Dismissed!"

 

He still remembers the smell of sweat after a hard day spent training - he and his mentor trading blows and wrestling each other to the ground; hours spent learning the use of firearms like pistols and rifles, small weapons such as knives and electric batons, and the rest of the time spent on hand-to-hand, which Kougami throws himself into with such reckless enthusiasm that he spends all of the morning after with severe muscle pain. (When his mentor initially found out that Kougami had been persevering through their training without taking the necessary rest, he had confined him to bed for a week and refused to speak with him.)

Their proximity soon acquaints him with the other's scent: dry and not really there, hard to remember, but easily recalled every time one opens a well-worn book. A strange scent to find on anyone. It's something he comes to appreciate rather than turn away from though, each time they lie side by side after a spar with the sweat steaming off their skin. His mentor likes to lean over and sprawl across his chest, ignoring the sounds of his disgust and attempts to shove him off. He'll stare and stare while wearing the strangest smile, until Kougami stops trying to avoid it and stares back.

Why did Kougami want to become like him, they ask once.

To deliver a justice which the law, by its own rules, cannot give, he replies. To become a criminal in order to hunt criminals, to hunt even if it meant being be hunted in turn. His mentor shakes his head at his simple naivety, but says that everyone's reasons are different.

What was their reason then, Kougami asks. But they're turning away, distracted by the wail of a siren and the sudden appearance of an out-of-breath thief. Before Kougami or the newcomer can speak, a knife sprouts from the latter's chest and they topple over, dead.

A few seconds later, he realises that his arm is the one outstretched, not his mentor's.

The man is pleased; they begin to carefully and quickly dismantle and pack both firearms and blades into a small bag - which reminds Kougami that he cannot leave the flick knife in the body to be found. He cleans the blade himself and makes to return it to his mentor, but they shake their head as they pull their hood over gleaming yellow eyes.

Keep it, they say. A reminder of his first kill.

He had never received a reply to his question, come to think of it. Even afterwards as they made themselves scarce, when he repeats it. He only knows that somewhere along the path of whatever justice his mentor believes in, they had become corrupted by misguided intentions and taken to killing for the pleasure of it.

 

Makishima always manages to elude his pursuers at the last moment, laying traps through the subterranean maze even as he flees from their snapping jaws. Men and women fall behind, injured, dead, but he and one Inspector follow their quarry to the abandoned subway tunnels of old Tokyo.

"I'll check the eastern tunnel, you check the western side," he tells her as if they were still equals, looking far too eager about the prospective end to their chase.

Tsunemori worries about him, but unlike Gino, she knows that each person has their own motivations and grievances and doesn't try to haul him away from it (she'll look back on these thoughts later with a grimace and regret that comes too late). So she nods, firms her grip on the Dominator, but he's already tearing down his chosen path after staying long enough to see her head move.

She doesn't ask for a reason (why would she?) and he doesn't give one, but anyone looking carefully will see an incomplete 'A' etched into the damp wall.

 

Kougami creeps around rusted tracks and skirts fallen rubble, casting his hearing out for a sound that would give away the location of his prey. Water drips, echoes; a strange wind moans down the tunnel from somewhere further ahead, blowing a stale, dusty scent towards him that dries his eyes and makes him feel like coughing. By the thin light of his gun, he takes careful steps around misshapen lumps, shivers at a puff of air against the back of his neck--

He swivels, finger pressing hard on the trigger. But it remains locked; the red tracer which only registered users can see floating over darkness.

Then to his left: the quiet snick of a hidden blade extending, a heavy force slamming into his side and throwing him against a pile of jagged concrete as the Dominator is sent skittering. Somehow he misses being pierced by the twisted wire frame that sprout like feelers throughout such things, but the impact leaves him winded and with a deep cut along the inside of his arm. It's probably bleeding like hell, yet it's not the worst he's endured during his time with him. Kougami's only gripe is that it lames his strong arm.

He kicks out and hears a grunt; the weight falls off him and he pushes off the concrete, throwing himself at where the waist must be. But he falls through air and ends up windmilling to keep his balance. A knee drives itself into his stomach and he collapses on to his side, coughing, as his invisible opponent tuts. Gritting his teeth, he sweeps his leg through the space where the sound originated and feels a leg give way. The other falls back, but uses the pull of gravity to tuck themselves into a roll and remain mostly unscathed. Kougami takes pleasure in the thought that he may have caused some scrapes.

The important thing is to get to his feet. He can almost hear the low words of his former mentor murmuring them as he casually applied pressure to Kougami's arm, threatening to snap the elbow in a memory. Kougami scrambles out of the way as a bullet shell ricochets off the floor.

_Did he shoot that?_

He half-crouches, keeping his centre of gravity low as he turns slowly searching for his opponent. _Don't use your eyes, use your senses._ He closes his eyes, and whirls around in time to fend off a lunge meant to throw him off-balance. Their harsh breathing sounds unnaturally loud in the echoing space, trifling as it is compared to the louder scuffles their feet make, compared to the bullet fired earlier.

By chance, Kougami manages to stop one of Makishima's fists with his palm. Even straining all his senses in this fight, he knows he won't locate the other fist in time to stop it connecting with his body. He curves back, dragging the other man down with him, and brings his feet up to kick them in the stomach and send them flying over his head.

A second shot rings out. This time there's a cry of pain.

Kougami crouches over Makishima, trying to slow the blood slowly pumping from the bullet wound in the other man's thigh. He yanks his shirt off and pads it against the hole. As his hands press the cloth down, a figure approaches holding the glowing shape of his Dominator. Kougami glares not at the gun pointed squarely at his forehead but at the woman behind it.

 _Kasei Joshu._ Makishima curses the woman, unadulterated hate turning his yellow eyes to a furious gold. He struggles to sit up, dragging at Kougami's blood-stiffened sleeve for support.

She ignores him and squeezes the trigger.

Kougami expects to die then, but he's shoved out of the way just as a bright flash leaves the gun's nozzle and strikes his former mentor's shoulder.

Those yellow eyes, for the briefest, briefest moment, reflect fear before being lost in the grotesque bulge as the flesh expands and swells upwards like a parody of a meaty balloon, and pops.

Blood, flesh, and viscera coat him from head to toe. He stares at the spot where a man had just been living and breathing, feeling numb. Work accustoms him to these sorts of sights, but not to the sight of it happening to a friend.

Kougami doesn't feel the least bit of fear as he sees the gun charge up again, hears the sound of its internal devices building up to fire the shot that will turn him from the inside out into a splatter across these walls. He's known ever since choosing this path that he will meet death at the hands of something violent, and at least he knows he'll soon be joining Makishima in hell.

He won't go noisily, raging against the fates as some people did for bringing them to this point. No, he stares (glares) down the barrel of his death calmly, and waits for the pain to be over.

_Long live the Assassins, bitch._

 

When Tsunemori arrives at the scene, all she can smell and taste is nausea clinging to the back of her throat like the aftertaste of vomit. She swallows back the urge to heave and shines a pocket light over the scene, already knowing what she'll find.

Two large smears, daubed as if with a large paintbrush across the detritus-strewn ground. She looks as long as she dares, following the fat end of one streak up to where it tapers, joins the thin end of the other splatter and then fattens again, then has to turn away and retch.

In her revulsion, she doesn't notice the horribly ironic figure it makes: a capital 'A', missing its horizontal stroke.


End file.
